Unlocking The Padlock
by heart-of-the-unicorn
Summary: In the past she has been accused of being cold, detached. But she always knew it is better to lock up your heart with a merciless padlock, than to fall in love with someone who doesn't know what you mean to them.


The bar is unusually quiet for a Friday night. A handful of people congregate around a couple of tables, leaning over their beers and filling the room with the gray fog of cigarette smoke. The music is turned down low, and the lighting and conversation are dim. None of the usual weekend clamor disturbs the peaceful scene. For this, Dana Scully is profoundly grateful. She came here for a drink, but she has never been a fan of the noise and desperation of the 'bar-scene.' Tonight's quiet is an unexpected benefit and in her present mood she finds it to be a relief.

She makes her way from the entrance over to the bar, trailing a gust of frigid air behind her. She winds through the unique assortment of antique tables and chairs that the owners have collected to give the place a touch of vintage charm. Band leaflets are pinned to the walls amid faded oil paintings, forming a curious mosaic. She doesn't pay the decor much mind, though. She's not here for the ambience, not tonight.

The bartender greets her as she leans against the bar. "What can I get you?"

"Scotch," she says, pointing to the top shelf of bottles. "Lagavulin."

He retrieves the dusty bottle and a glass and smirks at her inquiringly.

"Straight up."

He raises an amused eyebrow, but pours without comment. Scully takes the glass from the surface of the bar, sipping the liquid amber within. "Quiet tonight," she remarks, unsure why; she's not in the mood for small talk. But she likes him. He's been working at the bar for the better part of a year and they have a certain familiarity.

"It's the snow," he answers.

He is a student, working on his masters at Georgetown. He's not bad looking, and he's polite too. Scully assumes he finds her a welcome change from the parade of drunk, horny, middle aged pre-menopausals who hit on him all the time. He knows she's not after him for anything. She's an FBI agent, after all, ten years older than him. And she's usually in here with her partner.

"Snow keeps people at home," he adds.

"Suits me," Scully says, and upends her glass. Heat from the liquor expands in her chest. Normally, she doesn't pound back the good stuff. She likes to savor it, tasting every nuance, every smokey note of flavor. But tonight she's making an exception. She sets the glass on the bar. "Another, please."

He complies. "Rough day?" he asks as he pours.

Scully snorts.

"Want to talk about it?"

She looks around. There's no one all that near them, and even though he's the only one tending bar, he's not too busy.

"I..." She begins, then trails off, changing track. "Do you ever feel like you're wasting your life to make other people happy?"

He snorts in derision. He gets it. "Sure, all the time."

"Why is that?" Scully asks curiously.

"I'm living someone else's dream. Not my own." He swirls his cloth inside a newly washed beer glass, drying it. They're both quiet for a moment and she contemplates his words. "Well, I'm sure it's no comfort right now, but I think I am too." Scully gives him a weary smile.

Before he can respond he's called away. One of the tables needs another round, he gives her an apologetic look and starts pulling beers. Scully retreats from the bar and takes her drink to a seat by the window, where she can watch the snow as it falls. She raises the glass to her lips and takes a small sip. All day at work, she had been irritated and grumpy, through the daily grind of post-mortem paperwork and field reports. All the usual crap. They were working on a long-term case, and she had been spending a lot of weekends in the field or at the office with barely any down time. She should have seen this day coming, now that she thinks about it. She was bound to crack; child homicide cases were her least favorite. She watches the flakes drift downward. The city has never looked so clean, so pure. It's an illusion, of course, but a pleasant one.

"Scully?" The voice comes from above her. She looks up to see a tall, familiar man standing by her table.

"Mulder?" She is surprised but it isn't exactly a pleasant one. She had been a crabby bitch today. Facing him was tough.

"Drinking alone? May I?" He gestures to the seat across from her. He appears sad and drained and she feels a twinge of sympathy. He's struggling with this case too, more than he lets on. She sighs and takes another sip. "Sure."

Mulder takes a seat and eyeballs her drink.

"Do you do this often?" His eyes are warm, perhaps a little concerned, but he's not judging.

"No. Only occasionally."

A waitress comes over. Mulder orders a beer and another Lagavulin for Scully.

"What are you doing here?" Scully asks bluntly.

He gives her a sheepish look. "Just had to get out of the office, you know?"

That's nonsense, of course. She knows he must have followed her here. She sighs again.

"I'm sorry about today," she says. "I haven't been myself." There is real remorse in her voice.

With the guys at the office, he'd have shrugged off the static. He's glad he doesn't have to play macho games with her.

He nods slowly. "You haven't been yourself all month, and now here you are, on a crummy night, alone in a crummy bar."

Something in his tone penetrates the early stages of the scotch-induced haze that surrounds her and again she wonders what he's doing here. She looks hard at him, studying him, and his countenance becomes distant, suddenly guarded.

When she first began work on the X-Files, he hadn't known what to expect from her. She had a reputation for being cold and aloof, given to her most likely by disappointed male colleagues whom she had rejected or who had never found the courage to approach her. And in some ways, she has lived up to that reputation. When he looks at her, he sees a lush beauty subdued by grief, a woman caught within a wall of thorns. Yet she is not cold nor aloof. Scully demands a lot from him, professionally, but she has taught him much in return. And there is pure goodness in her, compassion melded with melancholy. Scully is a serious woman, not much given to humor or small talk, but hers is a generous spirit, that gives what it can, despite her burdens. She is his partner, and he would do anything for her. That she requires so little is his private regret.

"I'm lonely," she says. "This isn't how I envisioned my life." She takes a long swallow from her glass. Her gaze is now focused elsewhere, not on him.

This takes him by surprise. He wasn't expecting such an open admission, not this early in the evening. But he is aware that the case has been playing with her emotions. He doesn't know how or when he fell in love with her. But she captivates him, and he cannot break the spell. That he would love her seems ludicrous, in some ways. He is Fox Mulder; she is a scientist and a skeptic. And though she is beautiful, in her own, haunted way, she is not typically his type. She is not what you might expect a man like Mulder to fall for. Yet he has fallen, harder than ever before. Every experience that came before her was merely child's play. Scully is the real deal. But she has never encouraged his affections, though he thinks she must have some idea of their existence by now. So far he has contented himself with what little she is willing to give and receive. But tonight he is here because he senses that she needs more, and he hopes to provide.

Scully sits rigid in her seat, unable to relax into the back of it, her eyes travel to the surface of the table and stay there, avoiding his gaze. He soaks up the image; the delicate bow of her head, the gentle length of her neck, the dark red fall of her hair, the pomegranate red of her mouth. Though his mind races with what he wants to say, the words will not come. He wants to tell her that the reason he works sixty hours or more every week is that he gets to spend the time with her. He wants to tell her that the reason he has spent virtually every night for the last five years by himself is that he hasn't wanted anyone but her with him. And he's fairly sure she wants to hear it. But all he can manage is two feeble words.

"Me too."

She looks up at him, her expression unreadable. Internally he kicks himself. He needs to do better than that. She deserves more from him. But there is an entire zoo in his stomach to go along with the butterflies. When it comes to matters of the heart, Scully makes him nervous. Terrified, even.

"Scully..." he begins, trying again. He trails off, the words are like baby birds, too timid to take flight. She waits, one russet eyebrow arched slightly. Say something, Mulder. His mind is screaming at him. You're both adults here, just be honest. He reaches across the table and folds both of his hands around hers, trying again. "Scully," he speaks softly, trying for measured tones, "for a long time, we've been close. Friends. Partners." Fearful that he is sounding stupid, he almost gives up, but her hand tightens around his, encouraging him. He takes a deep breath.

"I want more than that. I want more for us."

Mulder waits, staring nervously into the intense blue of her gaze, and he sees comprehension there. Her eyes soften and begin to glisten with unshed tears.

"Me too." She echoes his words back huskily and the blissful rush of relief floods his senses.

She is unnerved and excited, and she finds herself gazing back at him. He traces a lazy finger along the inside of her arm, testing, perhaps, to see if she flinches from his touch. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't look away. Mulder detects the silent challenge in her eyes. She wants more and she wants it tonight. Who is he to deny her anything? They finish their drinks in silence. For a few minutes, the only sounds are the background music, dim conversation and the clinking of glass.

"Let's go," he says as he stands and offers her his hand. He gently guides her outside into the cold and reclaims his hand when she begins to shiver; pulling her to his torso and wrapping her up in his trench coat. Scully snuggles into the warm nest of white cotton shirt and aftershave, rubbing her cheek against his chest and wrapping her arms around his ribcage. Their hearts thud against one another as Mulder waits patiently for a taxi, relishing the close contact with his petite partner and the sweetness of her lavender scented hair. They don't exchange words, but after a few minutes as if by unspoken agreement, her face tilts upward and his down and their lips met tentatively for the first time. Suddenly the night disappears around them, as though they have been left alone in the world.

Mulder waits for the explosion, the tidal wave, for the earth to open up and swallow them whole. Surely some catastrophe will happen now that they have tempted fate so boldly. Mulder knows the lightning strike will come any second now. His only comfort is that he will die happy. Scully's mouth is pliant and warm against his, offering just the slightest intoxicating pressure. He has experienced more passionate kisses in his life, kisses filled with lust and heat and the promise of sex. But none had ever moved him as much as this gentle moment.

Slowly he pulls away from her. No trumpets, no air sirens, no earthquakes. There is only Scully's glowing face before him, surprise and pleasure wrestling for dominance over her features. With that first kiss the tension breaks, shattering like summer heat with the coming of a storm. Their lips find each other again, but this is not the gentle kiss of introduction. It is six years of longing no longer denied. This is hunger satisfied. Lips parting, tongues meeting, feasting on each other. Scully's hands are in Mulder's hair, pulling him closer, drinking him down. He is drowning in her sweetness and he welcomes the depths. They draw apart only when their lungs demand respite, both dazed. Scully can not resist a mischievous smile through the panting.

"That's the third taxi you've let go by."

"Mmmm," he presses his pelvis against hers, allowing her to feel his desire for her. "Totally worth it."

"Hello there G-man," she purrs at him playfully. Mulder is about to retort when he finds himself abruptly incapable of coherent thought. Scully wraps one small hand around his cock and begins squeezing it firmly through his pants from base to tip. Feeling out the territory beneath the safety of his trench coat. Then Scully's mouth is on his again, sucking lightly on his bottom lip at first, before taking his tongue all the way in. This is too real. He is going to come in about five seconds if she keeps it up. Fortunately a taxi is heading in their direction. Mulder throws his arm out and flags the driver down. Before she can react, he is already guiding them toward the car. Scully slides onto the backseat with him climbing in beside her. He holds her hand the whole way to Georgetown, lifting it to his lips to brush tender kisses over her knuckles every so often.

The moment they are in front of her building, with the taxi paid and driving away, she twines her arms around his neck and pushes her tongue into his mouth insistently. He pulls her up against his body, her toes barely grazing the pavement as he presses her against his rock hard erection. There is little doubt in her alcohol-hazed mind as to what is going to happen next. Her legs feel like rubber as they stumble into her building. She barely has her door open before he has his hand under her blouse, cupping her breast through her bra. She can hear herself whimpering already. He makes short work of her front-closure bra and her soft flesh pours straight into his eager hands.

The kissing and groping continues on and on until they fall back onto her bed. Her nipples grow hard in the cool air. He brushes his thumb over the tip, lightly at first, and then more firmly. She can feel him hiking her skirt up around her waist. When she reaches out to unzip his pants in order to get closer to him, he is so hot and hard that she can't stop herself from reaching into his boxer shorts and closing her hand around him. It makes him moan so delightfully. He tugs her panties down her legs, shredding her pantyhose when his fingernails catch on the sheer material. She lifts her hips helpfully, twisting from side to side as he works her underwear off. Slick from her desire, his fingers find her clitoris. She hears herself making little sounds; mewling, moaning, noises of extreme pleasure as his tongue follows his fingers. He laps at her hungrily, chuckling softly at her shuddering hips.

"Enough," she mumbles, pulling on his shirt. She's had years worth of foreplay, there's only one thing she wants right now. He obeys, snaking up her body and settling between her parted thighs. He pushes into her gently, just the very tip of him, as she digs her heels into the firm flesh of his ass. It is then that reality begins to pick at her brain. That incredible sensation is Mulder moving within her for the first time, slowly retreating and advancing a little deeper with each delicate stroke, until she is completely open to him. He pauses once he is fully sheathed in her. There is an errant lock of hair over her forehead, falling in her eyes. He tenderly smoothes it back and presses a warm kiss to her lips. He reads her expression for any discomfort.

"Okay?"

"Yeah," she gasps, unsure of where to hide her eyes. No man has ever looked at her with that much of his heart in his face before. His naked emotion is even more overwhelming than his naked body. He pulls most of the way out, places his hands under her knees and pushes her legs back, changing the angle and driving deeper into her body.

"Fuck, Scully." He grunts and his eyelids flutter closed.

"Yeah," she agrees, hooking her ankles behind his neck.

Within a matter of a few brief minutes, her whole body begins pulsing and quaking from within. Her face screws up in concentration, her back arches and she claws at Mulder's shoulder blades, as if that will keep her from flying through the roof. Her teeth latch onto his bicep and she bites down, causing him to yelp. Her raking fingers and sudden orgasm trigger a chain reaction and he stiffens over her and grunts painfully as his skin opens up under her fingernails. The blood pours from his back as he fills her with liquid desire. He gives her everything; blood, sweat, tears, half the genetic material required for a miracle.

He willingly gives it all.

When he finally returns to himself, Mulder is slightly disappointed for not lasting longer, but is happy with the result. She'd had enough fun that he is confident there will be a next time. And next time he will be much better prepared to blow her mind. He looks down to find her blinking up at him, the sleepy haze of Lagavulin and lovemaking evident in her blue eyes, along with a whole lot of something he wants to believe is love.

"I've imagined this for so long," he murmurs against her mouth between kisses. "Holding you, and touching you."

Mulder kisses the little hollow at the base of her throat, his hands skim over her body, palms smooth against her belly. Finally he rolls them onto their sides and curls himself around her, his chest to her back. He nuzzles the back of her neck and sighs happily. He hasn't felt this relaxed and light hearted in a long time. Scully's heart aches pleasantly within her, as if it is being squeezed by an invisible, loving hand. She pulls his arm tighter around her and laces their fingers together over her stomach, never wanting to leave the shelter of his steady embrace. Falling in love is real, it can be rare, but it is real. She used to shake her head in disbelief when people talked about soul mates, believing they were deluded individuals grasping at a supernatural ideal that sounded pretty in a poetry book. Then, she met Mulder, and her beliefs began to change, the skeptic became a convert, the cynic, an ardent believer.

She wasnt exactly sure when it happened. Or even when it started. Love does not appear with a warning sign. You fall into it, ass first, as if pushed into a pool. No time to think about what's happening. All she knew for sure, was that right here and now she was in love and she could rest assured that he was feeling the same way. She felt guilty for considering the idea that she had been wasting her life. Nothing she did with Mulder was a waste. She had been frustrated by their lack of direction and needed a change of scenery, of status. And he had enough insight into Dana Scully that he could see beyond her frustration and attitude to understand that the time had come; this thing between them was well overdue. In the past she has been accused of being cold, detached. But she always knew it is better to lock up your heart with a merciless padlock, than to fall in love with someone who doesn't know what you mean to them.

Dana Scully isn't cold. She isn't loveless. She is patient. She is cautious. She finds it hard to trust, with good reason. But as she languishes in Mulder's arms, she knows her heart is safe. She is seen and heard and valued. Her wait was justified. She is loved.

THE END


End file.
